


best practices in OPSEC

by nahco3



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: M/M, Phone Sex, a better way to jerk off, brought to you by shari's berries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 04:35:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10869237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: "Oh my god, are the taxpayers paying like seven hundred dollars a minute for this? Are you roaming? Are we going to have very expensive phone sex? This is the most decadent thing I’ve ever done in my life."





	best practices in OPSEC

**Author's Note:**

> this is in the same verse as [south china sea](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10539816), [threeturn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/threeturn/pseuds/threeturn)'s [Into It](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10635351) and [veryspecificfantasies](https://veryspecificfantasies.tumblr.com)'s  
> [national security emergency](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10740093), although you don't need to have read those to read this. 
> 
> this is obviously a product of my imagination and in no way true at all. please don't share this with anyone mentioned in it.

“You’re in Munich,” Jon says, “how are you calling me?”

“With my phone?” Tommy says.

“No, I mean like, how. Oh my god, are the taxpayers paying like seven hundred dollars a minute for this? Are you roaming? Are we going to have very expensive phone sex? This is the most decadent thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

“I work for the NSC,” Tommy says. “They give me an international plan, Lovett.”

“Right,” Jon says. “But seriously, we are going to have phone sex?”

“No,” Tommy says. “It’s two in the morning and I really should be writing these talking points so I can go to bed and be nice and fresh for when I get yelled at by Angela Merkel tomorrow morning.”

“And we can’t sext either?” Jon asks. 

On the other end of the line, he can hear Tommy sigh. He can almost imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Jon loves it.

“Do you want your sexts to get subpoenaed and read aloud on CSPAN?” Tommy asks.

“Yeah,” Jon says. “I’m a great sexter. Wait, who reads them? Like, is it Paul Ryan, or is it someone with a super sexy voice, like do they bring in a voice actor just for this?”

“Jesus, Lovett,” Tommy says. 

“Ok, ok, fine,” Jon says, abruptly remembering that Tommy is going to be secretary of state one day and that he actually can’t ever be publicly linked to openly gay failed television writer and disaster Jon Lovett. Which is fine. Jon wouldn’t want to be publicly linked to most of his hook-ups either. 

“How are you doing?” Tommy asks. 

“Well, I haven’t put German-American relations at their lowest point since 1945,” Jon says. Sometimes Jon hates how clearly Tommy was raised to be polite and to do the right thing. 

“Fair,” Tommy says, voice soft and a little sad. Whatever. Jon doesn’t care if Tommy sounds like he had to go kill Old Yeller. Does someone even kill Old Yeller or is that a different sad dog book? 

“Does Old Yeller die in Old Yeller?” Jon asks. 

“Wow,” Tommy says, “dead dogs and wire-tapping Angela Merkel, Lovett. You really know how to cheer me up.” 

“I’m just trying to kill the mood,” Jon says, “so that you don’t die of longing for me. Would you rather I said I was lying in a bed of roses wearing nothing but the locket you gave me before you went overseas?” He sticks his hand idly into his boxers, cupping his dick. It’s been awhile. He’s not tall enough or skinny enough or tan enough to be an LA gay. It’s exhausting. Probably it’s pretty fucked up to think about jerking off to Tommy’s voice when Tommy’s having some kind of emotional crisis in Germany that he can’t tell anyone about but Jon’s feeling pretty fucked up right now anyway. 

“Is that a pop culture reference I’m not getting or just something from your fevered imagination?” Tommy asks. 

“Fevered imagination,” Jon admits. He closes his eyes. “Tell me something boring.” He can almost imagine they’re back on their old couch in DC, Tommy next to him sounding soft and tired after a long day, Jon not yet burnt out and miserable. Jon leaning into Tommy’s shoulder and Tommy letting him.

“Um,” Tommy says, “did you know there’s a recurrence of polio in Syria because Assad is bombing hospitals?” 

“That’s terrifying, not boring,” Jon says. Fuck it. He reaches for the lotion on the side table. MIght as well lean into being washed up and pathetic, he thinks, holding his phone in the crook of his shoulder, squirting some lotion into his right hand, then reaching down into his sweats. “I meant something like, blah blah the GDP of Austria blah blah inflation.” 

“Well, you put me on the spot,” Tommy says, sighing. Jon misses him so much it’s stupid. He shuts his eyes again, moving his hand slowly and thinking about Tommy, the night before he left for LA, kissing and kissing and kissing Jon against the door of their apartment. 

“Sorry,” Jon says, “here I thought you were a communications professional.” His breathing is speeding up, his hips pushing forward to meet his hand. He bites down on his lip, hard.

“Yeah, people usually don’t ask me for boring sound bites,” Tommy says. “More like the opposite.” Jon thinks about Tommy, holding his hips against the wall and blowing him; Tommy in his bed early in the morning, kissing the inside of his thigh and opening him up so slowly; Tommy laughing so hard at one of Jon’s jokes coffee came out his nose; Tommy alone in a hotel room in Munich at two in the morning, lying on the bed, Jon’s voice in his ear.

He worries his lip more, runs his free hand along his neck, where Tommy used to kiss him, where Tommy left marks, just once, his last night in DC.

“Lovett?” Tommy asks. “You still there?”

“Yeah,” Jon says, maybe a little closer to a moan now. “Sorry, um. Keep talking.”

“Jon,” Tommy says, and his voice, god help Jon but his voice curls in just a little, warmer. “Jon, are you?”

“Shh,” Jon says, “Paul Ryan’s listening.” He puts the phone on speaker, throwing it down onto the bed next to him and pulls his pants the rest of the way off. He’s going to be unemployed in two months, he can indulge himself in this one small, pathetic thing. Who gives a shit. “Tell me more about global health crises.”

“Um,” Tommy says, and Jon doesn’t bother to bite back his moan as he slides one finger into himself. They can re-enact it in congress, it’s fine. “Jesus, Jon.” His voice is husky now and Jon can hear something, maybe the click of his belt buckle, on the other end of the line.

“Measles,” Jon says, working in a second finger, keeping his touch light on his dick now. “Mosquito nets for orphans.” He arches his back, working himself in a little deeper. His thighs fall apart. God, he wishes Tommy were here, his big hands on Jon’s knees, holding them apart, taking everything in, watching Jon. 

“You really need to talk about diseases less,” Tommy says, and Jon knows that voice, looser, easier. “God.” He can hear Tommy put the phone on speaker, his voice getting a little quieter, the rustle of sheets, and then a soft, wet sound, so quiet he thinks he might be imagining it. He grins to himself. 

“You’re making me do all the work,” Jon complains, finding the angle he wants, everything going liquid and hot. He makes another sound, desperate, the kind of thing he used to bite back in bed with Tommy, the kind that makes him feel torn open. 

“Jon,” Tommy says, pleading. God, Jon cannot hear Tommy say his name like that. It makes him want to say insane shit, it makes him want to beg. Jon makes another cut-off noise and this time Tommy makes one in return, something low that rumbles through the phone.

“Do you remember my last night in DC?” Jon asks. He shuts his eyes, jerks himself off careful and hard the way Tommy would, fucks himself with his fingers. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it, Tommy’s hands, Tommy’s mouth, everywhere. 

“Don’t,” Tommy says. “God, Jon. I can’t.” Tommy’s voice is rough. 

“Right,” Jon says, “Paul Ryan.” He has to stop, his breath coming fast, the slow slide of his fingers finally starting to overwhelm him. “I just want to hear you.”

“Jon,” Tommy says again, helpless. “Jon, please, for me, can you --” He bites back a sound, but Jon can hear the cut-off razor edge of it. “I need you to.” 

“Ok,” Jon says, and comes all over himself, his mind going blank.

He rides out the aftershocks, shaking a little, and pulls his fingers out with a moan, wiping them on his sheets. 

“Tommy?” he asks, “did you?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, shaky. Jon feels hollowed out, wants to laugh, wants to roll over and go to sleep, wants to press his face into Tommy’s shoulder. 

“Don’t hang up?” Tommy asks, his voice quiet. “I know you probably have stuff but.”

“It’s fine,” Jon says. He doesn’t want to think about any of that right now, can’t let it intrude on his post-orgasmic haze. “I can lie here in my filth for a little while longer.”

Tommy lets out a little sigh, barely audible. “Jon,” he says, then stops. 

“What?” Jon asks. Tommy’s probably lost in his own head again, thinking about work and saving the world and all the important things that Jon gave up. He runs a finger through the mess on his stomach idly. Too bad he can’t send a picture of it to Tommy. “Can I send you a picture of myself covered in jizz if there’s like, no face in it?”

“Lovett,” Tommy says, but he’s laughing now, for real. “Yeah, to my dot gov email, and make sure you cc Secretary Clinton.”

“Oh my god,” Lovett says, “I can just see her, coming into your office like, ‘Thomas, what are you doing with Jonathan? He’s an insane liability and trust me, I would know!’”

“She doesn’t even know where my office is,” Tommy says. 

“Maybe I’ll attach a map, too,” Jon rolls over, hoping that once he’s off his back he’ll feel less vulnerable. 

“You’re going to send me naked pictures of yourself and a map of the West Wing?”

“Look, you’re the freak who’s into communicable diseases and cartography, not me,” Jon says, with the increasing sense the conversation is getting away from him. “I’m just indulging you.”

“I know,” Tommy says, his voice a little more distant.

“Tommy --” Jon presses his face into the pillows. He knows he shouldn’t joke about ruining Tommy’s career. It’s just. He doesn’t have many other coping mechanisms right now. “I mean I guess it’s not terrible for me either. I’ve always had a thing for cartography. Nothing like a good Mercator projection, that’s what I always say.”

Tommy laughs and then Jon hears the click of a light switch. There’s a unbearable pressure in his chest, thinking about Tommy, wiping himself off and turning off the light, his alarm already set for the next morning. 

They’re quiet for a second. Jon’s trying to think of a polio joke that isn’t like, super tasteless, when Tommy breaks the silence. 

“Jon?” 

“Yeah?” Jon gets under the covers, too. It’s the middle of the afternoon. Seems like the thing to do.

“Do you think I’m fucking everything up?” Jon lets a long slow breath. He has no idea. He just knows what he reads on Twitter and it’s not great. He’s not good at this. 

“Not everything,” Jon says, trying to keep his voice level. Fuck, that was the wrong thing to say. “But what do I know.”

“You aren’t fucking everything up either,” Tommy tells him, soft. Jon feels flushed all over, too warm with the feeling of it. Maybe that was the right thing to say after all. 

“Sleep good,” he tells Tommy, and listens to Tommy’s breathing level off before he hangs up.

**Author's Note:**

> ONE MILLION THANKS to the incomparable [threeturn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/threeturn/pseuds/threeturn) and [veryspecificfantasies](https://veryspecificfantasies.tumblr.com) for reading this over for me and making it so much better, and for their own fics in this 'verse!!!!!! thanks also to everyone who has made this fandom such a fun, warm place. love you all. you can find me screaming about this and other subjects [on tumblr](https://baking-soda.tumblr.com) .


End file.
